


Not quite charming, but you'll do

by dayinthelife



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:56:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayinthelife/pseuds/dayinthelife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the asoiafkinkmeme.</p><p>Prompt: 5 fairytales Rickon and Shireen find themselves in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not quite charming, but you'll do

_La Belle au bois dormant_

Rickon stares at the ivy covered castle in confusion, not sure where he is or how he’s gotten there. He looks down and notices his own appearance has changed, he’s garbed in a strange green tunic with a scabbard heavy on his hip. Shaggy howls from somewhere near the castle, beckoning Rickon to join him. The boy grins to himself and howls back, unsheathing his sword to cut through the thickets of thorns and brambles that separate them. He doesn’t really know what’s going on, but he’s never been one to turn down an adventure.

It is almost dusk by the time he reaches the castle. His copper hair is disheveled, his face and hands covered in little cuts left by the thorn bushes that seem to make up the majority of the flora in this peculiar land. Breathing heavily, Rickon wipes the sweat from his brow and looks around for Shaggydog. He sees a jet-black figure dart through the inner gates and chases after it.

“Shaggy!” he calls out, but the courtyard is empty, and a preternatural quiet seems to emanate from the castle grounds. Suddenly Rickon regrets shouting, and his footfalls seem to boom in the silence as he walks toward the great oaken doors leading inside.

“Shaggy?” he whispers, pushing a door open with a deafening creak. He hears nothing in response, so he steps inside. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and Rickon can’t help but shiver at the eerie feeling that washes over him. Everything inside looks normal at first, but then he notices the dust. It’s everywhere, as if all of the people living there had suddenly disappeared one day, right in the middle of their duties, without even stopping to collect their possessions when they left. Rickon glances at the tapestries decorating the walls, but doesn’t recognize any of the banners, lands, or sigils depicted on them. 

He walks through the great hall and comes to the grandest staircase he has ever seen, all milky white marble and shining with the last ruddy rays of sunlight. Without a thought he ascends, footsteps echoing in the hush. He starts humming _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ to himself to fill the unnerving quiet. 

It feels like he’s been climbing forever when he reaches the top and finds that the hall fans out in three directions. Rickon hesitates before hearing a bark to his left. He breaks off into a jog, cursing his direwolf under his breath. The second level of the castle is a maze of stone, and he finds himself turning right, left, right, right, left again as he follows the sound of Shaggy’s barks. He is starting to get frustrated when he sees the wolf’s tail slip just round the next turn, and he breaks into a run. Finally, he’s caught up with the animal. Shaggy is sitting next to another oak door, emerald eyes glinting mischievously in the low torchlight (Rickon hadn’t noticed the lit torches until now, and he feels a shiver go up his spine).

“Shaggy, what in seven hells are you doing?” he asks the wolf, walking up to him and ruffling his fur. He whines in response, nosing at Rickon’s stomach and pushing him toward the door. 

Rickon gives him a quizzical look but Shaggydog whines again, inclining his head toward the door and blinking. Rickon rolls his eyes, then grabs the brass knob with a clammy hand and turns it.

The room he enters isn’t like the other areas of the castle, quiet and dusty and dead; this one seems to glow warmly, with an ethereal light that’s not really coming from anywhere Rickon can see. The windows are wide and decorated with glass stained all sorts of reds, yellows and blues, and it’s only now that Rickon realizes how high he’s climbed. In the center of the room is a bed, surrounded by bouquets of flowers: baby’s breath and lilies, asters and lavender, and blue roses that remind Rickon of something from the past that he can’t quite place his finger on. 

Rickon feels his breath catch when he sees the girl lying on the bed, her chest rising and falling slightly as if she were asleep. She is dressed in the finest gown he’s ever seen, a pristine white skirt and black bodice with topaz and onyx and pearls woven intricately about it. Her hair is long and raven black, pooling about her head and shoulders in a way that reminds him of the dark waters in the godswood back home. Her face is porcelain, except, he notices, on her left cheek and down her neck, where the skin seems to have been transformed to grey stone. But this makes no difference to Rickon as he stares at her lips and thoughts of curses and witches and prophecies flit through his mind, things that when he woke this morning he would have dismissed as nothing but tales, stories told to children by their wet nurses. He might very well be attacked by a grumpkin at any moment, Rickon thinks absurdly as he approaches this princess (for she must be a princess, one as beautiful as this), her lips parted ever so slightly in sleep. He leans over her and grasps one of her surprisingly warm hands, but she sleeps on. Swallowing, he shakes her shoulder a little, but even for the jarring movement she still does not wake. Rickon looks about himself, suddenly embarrassed, and after a moment presses his lips to hers chastely. He jumps when he feels a hand in his hair and her lips starting to move beneath his. 

“I-I’m sorry!” he stammers, backing away as the girl sits up. She blinks at him, blue eyes shining with amusement.

“That is a strange name. I am Shireen,” She smiles at him then, a small shy smile, and Rickon blushes despite himself.

“No, that’s not my name, I’m Rickon, of House Stark.” He hears a bark from the doorway and he grins. “That’s Shaggydog. …Where are we?”

Shireen looks from boy to wolf and back again, then stands and grasps Rickon’s hand. “I will tell you, but first shall we investigate the kitchens? I’d quite like a lemoncake, and I feel as though I haven’t eaten in decades.”

 

_Den lille havfrue_

It is a lovely dream, Shireen thinks. The sun feels warm against her skin and she can hear the sounds of the sea all around her: waves lapping lazily against the shore, gulls crying out to one another as they scavenge for food. It reminds her of her childhood, the days when her mother allowed her to visit the seashore (accompanied by Maester Cressen and Patchface, of course) to wade in the salty water and collect seashells. But this was before the greyscale, it was a rare occasion that she was permitted such frolicking now. So she squeezes her eyes shut even tighter and rolls over, not wanting to wake.

And suddenly she is soaking wet, bobbing up and down in seawater and sputtering for air. She flails her arms, utterly confused, blue eyes now wide open in astonishment and a bit of fear (Shireen has never been a particularly strong swimmer). Once she has oriented herself well enough to keep her head above water curiosity overcomes shock and Shireen actually takes in her surroundings.

Something tells her she isn’t in Blackwater Bay; the coast is all caramel-colored sand twinkling in the sunlight where the shores of Dragonstone are stony and harsh, speckled with little black and grey pebbles that hurt when you step on them wrong. There are also strange-looking ships milling about the choppy waters, architecture like she’s never seen before, she doubts even Ser Davos would be familiar with them.

An incoming wave shakes Shireen from her wonderment, propelling her backward and into a large rock jutting up out of the sea. She grasps the rock, recoiling a bit at the sliminess, and pulls herself up, hoping to get a better view of the ship nearest to her in the harbor. 

It is then that she notices that a scaly turquoise tailfin has replaced her legs. Shireen gasps in delight, moving her fin up and down experimentally, fascinated by the way the sun glints off the scales like so many jewels. Her nurses had told her stories of merlings and enchanted kingdoms beneath the sea since she could remember, and now it seems Shireen has been transported into one of those tales. A laugh escapes her lips, and she pushes off of the rock and into the water, exhilarated by the ease and speed with which she moves, deeper and deeper until she can see the ocean floor. Strange creatures scuttle past and a school of minnows flash by, grazing her arms and tickling her. Her dark hair floats in a halo about her face and Shireen is absolutely enraptured by this aquatic world, is about to move even further past the shore in search of her underwater kingdom when she hears some garbled clamor coming from the surface. Curious, Shireen swims toward the noise.

The closer she gets, the clearer the sounds become. There is shouting, much splashing and frenzied barking, all at once. It seems the source of the commotion is the large ship Shireen saw earlier; she stares at its underbelly and feels a knot of fear start to tangle her stomach. Although she has always loved hearing Ser Davos’ stories about his sea voyages (much to her mother’s dismay), she has never been this close to a ship before and had until now never realized how intimidating they could be. 

There is another splash, and Shireen sees a flash of copper glinting somewhere near the surface. It seems a boy has fallen overboard. After a moment of watching him struggle, it also seems this boy cannot swim.

Feeling suddenly brazen, Shireen swims up toward him. She grabs underneath his arms and hauls him to the surface, dragging him through the choppy waves and toward shore. His is older than she thought, of an age with herself and almost a man grown, and she struggles for a moment before there is a splash from behind. Suddenly a very large, very black wolf is paddling to catch up to her. The wolf that was yelping on the ship earlier doesn’t skip a beat, taking the boy’s tunic in his mouth as soon as he reaches them and dragging the boy up onto the sand. Shireen follows, moving awkwardly with her new tail, and the wolf steps back as she leans over him. He is soaked to the bone, red hair limp and plastered to his pallid cheeks. She places her hand gingerly on the boy’s chest, hoping against hope that his heart still beats. 

It does, and after a few tense seconds he gasps and chokes, spitting up seawater. Shireen brushes a few wet strands of hair out of his eyes and he blinks up at her, brow furrowed in confusion. He looks familiar somehow, although Shireen can’t say from where she might know him. There is a wildness in his blue eyes that she has never seen the likes of on Dragonstone, where the people remain withdrawn and taciturn, reluctant to give her stern father a reason to acknowledge them. 

She gives the boy a small smile as the giant wolf nuzzles his neck and whimpers. The boy grins and hugs the wet animal, burying his face in its fur for a long moment before turning his gaze to Shireen. She feels a blush creep up her face as he notices her tail, but he does not seem afraid. Instead, he shares the same delight Shireen had when she discovered it, and says something enthusiastically in a language she cannot understand. Shireen cocks her head and the boy repeats himself, this time gesturing toward her lower half. She blushes a deeper crimson as she realizes what he’s saying, but nonetheless does not recoil when he reaches out a hand to stroke her scales. 

It is surprisingly intimate; her tail is a good deal more sensitive than her legs were, and his hands are soft and warm and slide easily over the smoothness of her lower body. He looks into Shireen’s eyes, smiling coyly before moving his hand upward. Shireen laughs, placing her hand on top of his and suddenly he is kissing her on the mouth. 

It is startling at first; Shireen has never been kissed by anyone, has never had anyone show her affection except for her mother, Maester Cressen, Ser Davos, and even those displays were few and far between. But this feeling is novel and exciting, she quickly decides, touching the boy’s lips with the tip of her tongue. She must have done the right thing because he laughs into her mouth and deepens the kiss, brings a hand up to her cheek and not even caring that it looks like mottled stone. 

They kiss for what seems like an eternity until the boy’s wolf gives a loud bark. Shireen jerks away, giving him a startled look. The boy shrugs and then notices several men (they must be sailors, from the ship he was on) appear further down the beach, shouting and gesturing wildly. He stands and waves, shouting something back in that strange language of his (it must be the Old Tongue, Shireen decides, she’s heard that many of the more secluded islands maintain this speech). 

“Rickon,” he says to her, pointing at his chest. Then he strokes the fur of his wolf. “Shaggy,” he continues, nodding at the beast. Shireen nods and he grins. Then he points to her, says something in his own language again.

“Shireen,” Shireen says, gesturing to herself the same way he did. He repeats her name a few times then touches her chest, above her heart. 

“Shireen.” He says firmly, before giving her a quick peck on the lips and dashing off toward the sailors. 

 

_Le Petit Chaperon Rouge_

“Myrcella? Tommen!” Shireen calls out, running after her cousins. They have been playing games all afternoon in the wood outside of King’s Landing and dusk is upon them, which means the siblings’ uncle will be along to collect them soon. Interacting with other children her age is a rare treat, and Shireen loves visiting her father at court because it means she gets to see her dear cousins Tommen and Myrcella (Joffrey is a cousin, but can hardly be considered dear with the way he stares at her and grimaces, as if she were contagious). But the two golden haired siblings have run off ahead of her and now Shireen fears she might be lost.

An eerie hush has fallen over the forest, the chirping and chattering of woodland creatures getting settled in for the night suddenly absent. Shireen tries to stay calm, but as she continues running, shouting her cousins’ names, she starts to worry. What if Ser Jaime has already come and taken the other Baratheon children home? Surely a knight of the Kingsguard wouldn’t leave the king’s brother’s daughter to fend for herself, at night no less…But father has always said that Ser Jaime is hardly a man of honor…

Shireen’s heart starts to flutter in a panic and she trips over a hidden root, falling into a pile of autumn leaves (which seem very out of place, seeing as it’s mid-summer). She thumps against the ground, the breath knocked out of her momentarily. 

“Myrcella?” She calls out once more from her knees, feeling tears start to well up in her eyes. She raises an arm to wipe them away, and is quite surprised to find that she’s wearing a cloak of Lannister crimson. Perplexed, Shireen stands and spins, the cloak flowing about her shoulders. It’s real enough, but she swears she was wearing a light black shawl only moments ago, not this heavy velvet garment. But the cape feels strangely comforting as the light begins to fade, so she wraps it about herself and continues making her way through the trees, finding a well-beaten path that she swears wasn’t there a moment ago. 

“TOMMEN!” She yells, wondering what could possibly be going on. She follows the mysterious path as it weaves between large, imposing pines, hoping that it will lead her to her cousins. Deeper and deeper into the forest she goes, past a stream she doesn’t recognize and a glen she swears wasn’t there an hour ago. But her panic from earlier is slowly ebbing, the weight of the scarlet cloak making her feel safer somehow. 

It feels as though she has been walking for ages when Shireen sees a small cottage in the distance with smoke issuing merrily from its chimney. She hears a cry of childish laughter and her heart skips a beat; could her cousins be inside? She starts to run toward the cottage when she hears a wolf howl nearby. The sound sends a shiver through her, stopping her in her tracks. The howls continue, and sound like they are coming from all sides. Shireen isn’t sure how many wolves are in hidden in the dark wood but she knows she can’t just stand waiting to get eaten. She takes a deep breath and wraps the red cloak about herself and starts walking to the cottage, faster and faster until she breaks into a run, but the howling only sounds like it’s getting nearer.

Just when she feels as though her heart will burst, a giant black beast emerges from the brush to her right, emerald eyes glowing fiercely in the fading sunlight. Shireen almost topples over in her efforts to stop herself before she runs into the thing. The wolf growls at her and Shireen fears her life might be over when a boy about her age comes barreling out of the trees.

“Shaggy!” he says, reprimanding the animal that is twice his size. He smacks the beast on the muzzle, but instead of being torn to shreds the boy only frowns as the wolf tucks its tail between its legs and whines. Shireen stares open mouthed for a moment before remembering her manners.

“Er…hello…m-my name is Shireen,” she stammers, twisting her cloak in her hands anxiously as she stares at the wolf.

“Rickon,” the boy grins, apparently unaware of Shireen’s fear as he throws an arm around his animal companion’s neck. “This is Shaggydog.”

The sound of laughter carries over to them from the cottage and Shaggydog’s fur stands on end.

“Do you know who lives there?” Shireen asks, but Rickon shakes his head. 

“I can come with you though, if you’re scared,” he says teasingly, taking Shireen’s hand in his and walking toward the chalet. Rickon’s hand is warm and comforting and even his wolf seems less intimidating when it isn’t growling and staring her down.

The cabin is ancient, made of grey stone and overgrown with ivy. But it does not seem unpleasant, and the bronze lion-shaped doorknocker is warm and heavy in her hand.

“Myrcella?” she calls out, hoping to hear a response.

“Shireen! Yes, we’re in here, just open the door,” Myrcella replies, her voice sounding muffled behind the thick oaken door.

Shireen puts her hand on the handle but before she can push the door open Shaggydog leaps onto her chest, knocking her back.

“Shaggy! What are you doing?” Rickon scolds, but his wolf ignores him, rumbling with a low, threatening growl. “Shaggy, get off of her!” 

Shireen pushes at him and finally the wolf moves, turning to pace back and forth in front of the cottage door, tail stiff behind him.

Rickon pulls Shireen up and apologizes sheepishly. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him…”

They stand for a moment, holding hands, and Shireen is about to ask Rickon to please tell his wolf to move so she can get inside to her cousins when they hear a voice.

“Shireen?”

There is a rustling coming from behind them, and Myrcella and Tommen walk out of the wood, looking confused but no worse for wear.

“Myrcella? But…” Shireen says, looking from her cousins to Rickon and back again.

“Shireen…please open the door,” the girl inside the cottage says, before breaking off into an awful, almost inhuman bout of laughter. Shireen shivers and shakes her head at Rickon as Shaggydog barks and growls. There is pounding on the other side of the door, and Rickon tugs at her hand.

“I think we should leave,” he says, voice low, and they break into a sudden run toward Tommen and Myrcella. 

“We need to go!” Rickon shouts at them, and the four children dash down the path and through the trees. It feels like an eternity before they finally reach the clearing where they are supposed to meet Ser Jaime, and at some point in their escape, Shireen has lost hold of Rickon’s hand. Breathing heavily, Shireen looks beside her, but the boy has disappeared. 

“Where’s Rickon?”

“Who?” Myrcella asks, frowning and cocking her head.

“The boy who led us out of the woods, away from that cottage…He was right next to me…” as she speaks, Shireen notices the cloak that has come undone at her throat is once again black and silky.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Shireen.” Myrcella gives her a bemused look.

“Uncle Jaime!” Tommen exclaims, and the children are ushered onto their horses and back off to King’s Landing. Shireen looks over her shoulder as they go, and swears she can see a pair of emerald eyes peering out at her from the brambles.

 

_Den Lille Pige med Svovlstikkerne_

The cold is biting as Shireen stumbles through the cobbled streets clutching the thin scarf around her neck with one gloved hand and holding out a match with the other. She has been sent out to do her duty for her family and sell matches. Just because she is a girl doesn’t mean that she can’t be useful, her father always says. It has been a hard winter, and there is very little to eat at home, only onions, and even that supply is running low. And so she has been out for hours, crying out to whomever will hear her, _matches, matches_. 

But times are hard on everyone, not just the little match girl. She is only given passing looks of pity if anyone even bothers to notice her at all. Shireen sniffs and rubs her numb hands together before breaking into a fit of coughing brought on by the cold. A woman glances at her and clutches her young child’s hand tighter, hurrying by so they won’t catch cold (or worse, poverty) themselves. 

Dusk settles into darkness and still Shireen has yet to sell a single matchstick. Her heart drops to her stomach as she imagines the disappointment that will be in her father’s eyes should she return home unsuccessful. And so she continues on her way, head down against the wind and the cutting, icy flurries it has brought. 

She has walked a great deal and for a great while, when she slides to the ground beside one of the unforgiving red brick buildings the snow has already begun to pile up. Sighing, Shireen lights one of the matches, just one, to warm her hands, and then she will continue on her way. As she feels her fingers begin to tingle with warmth, she looks at the little flame and for a moment she sees movement skirting around the corner, a flash of shadow on shadow and the padding of some large animal. Shireen shakes her head to dismiss the shadow and brings the flame closer to her face, but it burns out in a matter of seconds.

She frowns and lights another match, bringing her knees up to her chest in order to exploit the insufficient amount of heat the tiny flame will provide. She closes her eyes and imagines the flame caressing her cheek when she hears a boy’s laughter on the wind. Her eyes snap open again and she looks about her, but there’s not a soul left out of doors at this hour and in this weather.

She pushes aside the laughter, blaming it on exhaustion, and stands before she lights another match. As she shuffles through the snow she catches a glimpse of a boy with auburn hair and a wicked smile, and she swears he beckons to her before running off down an alleyway. Swallowing, Shireen lights another match and dashes after him, her matchbox thumping against her chest with every stride. 

He stands at the end of the alley, fiery hair mussed and a sweet challenge of a smile on his lips. It seems to Shireen that she knows this boy, she’s met him sometime before in a dream. She grins, reaching out toward him, and her flame goes out, leaving her in darkness. 

She groans petulantly, fumbling in the dark for another match, but when she lights it the boy is gone and there is no trace of his existence left behind in the snow. Shireen wants to cry, but knows that if she does her tears will only freeze on her cheeks and so her eyes remain dry, but the frustration of seeing something so familiar, so welcoming, only to have it snatched away, remains. She licks her chapped lips and rounds the corner of the alley in time to see a dark figure on all fours staring at her. It is dark like the shadows, but if she squints Shireen can make out the doglike form amongst the gloom, snowflakes melting quickly in fur black as pitch. Green eyes stare at her knowingly before the beast bounds off, tail swishing invitingly. Once again Shireen finds herself running, and once again she finds herself left in darkness as her matchstick burns out.

She only has a few matches left now, but it no longer matters as she lights another and continues running, following the sound of her name whispered by a dream given life. 

Her last match seems to glow brighter and warmer than the rest, and Shireen finds that she doesn’t feel cold after all of her running. She walks back into the town square restlessly, snow crunching loudly under her boots, and she sees the boy standing beneath one of the lamps. He turns toward her and grins, beckoning her to him with one hand while laying the other on the back of his charcoal colored wolf. 

“Please, please don’t leave!” Shireen splutters, reaching toward her phantom once more.

“Why should I ever leave you?” the boy says, grasping her hand finally. His hand is astonishingly warm and soft, and he pulls her into an embrace. “Winter has come,” he says solemnly, kissing Shireen’s snowy hair. “Come with me.”

The boy with the wild auburn hair and even wilder blue eyes, the one who Shireen has seen so many times in her dreams, drapes an arm protectively over her shoulders and walks her toward an almost blinding golden light. His wolf barks happily and runs into it in front of them, his wagging tail disappearing with an impossible shimmer.

Rickon (she doesn’t know how she knows the boy’s name, but she does) puts his hands on Shireen’s shoulders, looking into her eyes with a certainty she has never seen in her father’s. He smiles and kisses her forehead, his lips warm against her skin. 

“I’ll protect you, I promise, me and Shaggy. Follow me,” he says, taking her hand. And she does.

 

_Rapunzel_

The song is lovely and alluring as it floats through the forest and to Rickon’s ears. He smiles when he hears it, as if remembering some far-off memory, and finds himself following the sound, Shaggy following closely behind with his tail wagging. After a few minutes of tromping through the wood, Rickon reaches a clearing in which resides an impossibly tall stone tower. It seems to him that the singing has grown louder, and so he approaches the tower with a smile on his face and his sword hanging forgotten at his hip.

“Hello?” he calls, cupping his hands to his mouth. The singing stops abruptly, and after a moment a girl’s head is peeping out from the highest window. She looks about, not sure where the call has come from, and seems startled when she sees Rickon and Shaggy below her.

“Hello!” Rickon repeats, and a smile spreads across the girl’s face. She waves to him, beckoning him closer. Rickon grins and runs up beneath her window, shielding his eyes against the sun as he peers up to see her. She’s about his age, maybe a few years older, with raven colored hair, striking against her pale skin. 

“Well?” the girl asks with a giggle, “aren’t you going to come up?”

She struggles with something within the tower before dropping down a dark braided rope. It takes Rickon a moment to realize that she hasn’t dropped a rope at all, but the braid is actually the girl’s dark hair, gleaming in the sunlight.

Rickon hesitates and looks at Shaggy, who cocks his head in an equally bemused expression. 

“Come on then! Climb up!” the girl enthuses, shaking her plait for emphasis. Rickon shrugs and starts to climb, his feet finding surprisingly easy purchase in the stones. 

“Shaggy, you stay there!” he calls when he’s halfway up the tower, and the direwolf merely stares in response. 

After several minutes Rickon reaches the maid’s window, scrambling on the ledge and falling into her room gracelessly. He stands and brushes himself off as she giggles behind her hand, his legs trembling a bit (he has never had his brother’s penchant for climbing). 

“Well, you aren’t quite what I was expecting, but I suppose you’ll do,” the girl says as she gives him an appraising look.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rickon says indignantly, his voice a bit higher than he’d prefer. She giggles again and shakes her head.

“Nevermind. I’m Shireen, my father’s mistress has trapped me in this tower and I assume you’re here to save me. What might be my savior’s name?” She says this all quite matter-of-factly, twirling a wayward strand of hair about one of her fingers.

“Er..I’m Rickon,” Rickon states lamely as his brows furrow in confusion. He thinks this is a bit much just for following some girl’s song. Shireen looks a bit put out by his lack of enthusiasm, and it reminds him of Arya when she’s told she can’t go out and join Bran and Robb in the practice yard. 

“I mean. I am Rickon, of House Stark.” He tries again, placing a hand on the pommel of his sword. This seems to be a better response, because the smile is back on her face. Rickon is grinning back when he Shaggy barks from below.

“Oh dear…I hope that isn’t my father’s mistress…”

There is a woman robed in red drawing near, and Rickon can feel Shaggy’s growing cageyness. When the woman sees Shaggy she gives a cry. 

“Don’t let her see you!” Shireen says, shoving Rickon away from the window. He isn’t expecting this, so when he loses his balance he grabs Shireen and they both tumble to the floor. 

“Shh! Listen,” he says as he senses Shaggy’s growing agitation turn into something more threatening. There are a few fearsome barks, a scream, and a hideous tearing sound, then silence. Rickon blushes when he notices that Shireen has the fabric of his tunic balled in her fists, her knuckles white in fear.

“What’s happened?” she asks him, blue eyes suddenly brimming with worry, and Rickon hopes that Shaggy hasn’t done any permanent damage. 

When he peeks out the window again, he sees his direwolf sitting in the grass below, licking at a wound on his paw. There are remnants of red cloth scattered around him, and Rickon is thankful that the color would mask any gruesome stains.

“I think Shaggy scared her away,” he says, looking back to Shireen. “Now what was this about me rescuing you?”

Rickon saunters over to the heavy oaken door on the other side of the room and tries the handle, cursing under his breath when he finds it’s locked. Shireen only rolls her eyes and smiles.

“You think I haven’t tried that already?” she says, fingering her braid absentmindedly. This gives Rickon an idea.

“Are you sure?” Shireen asks for the third time, but nevertheless she double knots the thick chunk of hair around the door handle, and tenses as Rickon unsheathes his blade. He is a bit clumsy, but after some hacking Shireen is free of her braid and touches her new, short hair gingerly. His sister would like this cut, and he tells her so. 

Together they toss the other end of her braid out the window and climb down to Shaggy, who has taken to panting and drooling happily.

“Not quite charming,” Rickon says sheepishly as the wolf licks at Shireen’s hand.

“You’ll do,” Shireen answers with a small smile before threading their fingers together and giving him a kiss on the cheek.


End file.
